by Anne Emery
“Let me help you then. We were in Cape Breton, were we not? At your family’s dinner table. A few short weeks after our impetuous, impassioned rendezvous at the Lord Nelson Hotel, which for me was a prelude to a reconciliation but for you was nothing but a toss in the hay. But let’s get back to dinner with the family, shall we? There was you near the head of the table, me at the other end, and all those other people who are dear to us. Remember it now?”
Were there actually tears in those eyes? Not likely.
“I was sitting there with a big, goofy, happy, deluded, cat-got-the-canary smile on my face, directed at you. And then what happened?” She put her hands on my chest and shoved me away from her. I grabbed her arm and turned her around. “I asked you a question. What happened?” Silence. “Since you’re suddenly bereft of words — for the first time in your long and loquacious life — I’ll fill it in for you. The moment I became a shit was the moment when I, in the presence of my son, and my daughter, and my friend, and my in-laws, learned for the first time that you are pregnant with another man’s child. Have you any fucking idea what that moment was like for me? I am not going to stoop so low as to stand here and call you a bunch of names. I don’t want to be in your presence that long. If it weren’t for Tom and Normie I would never speak to you or look at your face again. Don’t you stand there and tell me what a shit I am. This situation is solely, entirely, totally, one hundred percent your fault. Not mine. And I will never, ever forgive you. Got it now?”
She stood looking up at me wide-eyed, slack-jawed, dumbstruck. As if these were the first words she had ever heard come out of my mouth. And for all I knew, they were. I turned and left her standing there.
Chapter 9
You been another man’s woman, I can see it in your eye. You been another man’s woman, baby, I can see it in your eye. You tellin’ me you’re sorry, that ain’t nothin’ but a lie.
— Maynard T. Maitland, “Other Man’s Woman Blues”
“Oh, Monty! Hold on a second, will you?” It was Felicia, bustling towards the elevator at closing time the next day with a bunch of shopping bags. I held the door open so it wouldn’t crush her and her parcels.
“Thanks.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, though I doubted she needed an occasion to go on a search-and-destroy mission in the shops on Spring Garden Road.
“As if you didn’t know!”
“I don’t. Sorry.”
“Oh no, maybe it’s my fault. Didn’t you get your invitation?”
“Invitation to what?”
“To the Fanshaws’.”
“The Fanshaws’ what?”
We arrived at the ground floor, and I helped her with the packages.
“They’re having a party Saturday night. The twenty-second. They’ve invited me and asked me to bring along some of my partners. You didn’t get my note?”
“No. Anyway, have a good time. I have to —”
Her hand shot out and stopped me from turning away. “I’m such a klutz sometimes but I kind of told Ken that I’d bring somebody from the firm. I think they’re shopping around for new counsel, to tell you the truth. We do some work for them, but I think it’s time we pushed for a more lucrative solicitor-client relationship with Ken and his companies.”
“Well, then, I hope you invited Vance Blake. He’ll rope them in.”
“Between you and me, Monty,” she whispered, putting her face close to mine, “I can’t stand Vance. He’s so vulgar.”
“Excusez-moi, vous autres.” Our associate Monique LeBlanc had just come in the door and stopped to have a word.
“Hi, Monique,” I said. Felicia didn’t greet her but gave me a look, as if the interruption must be painfully unwelcome for both of us.
Monique didn’t notice. “Did you see Alyre up in the office? We arranged to meet, but I’m late. I wonder if he’s up there waiting.”
“I didn’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there.”
“Felicia, you didn’t see Alyre, did you?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
She got into the elevator, and the doors closed behind her. Felicia rolled her eyes. “That boyfriend. Have you met him?”
“Alyre? Sure.”
“Do you know what he does?”
“No.”
“He’s a plumber.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“Great. I should get his number. I need a whole lot of work done at my house but I tend to put things off. If Monique says he’s got some time open soon, I’ll —”
“Right. The boyfriend with the crack of his ass showing in your bathroom and Monique sitting on the edge of the tub drafting a factum for the Court of Appeal. Can’t you just see him making conversation with the Strattons at the next firm event? Do you think that French accent of Monique’s is put on?”
“Why would it be? She’s from Caraquet, like Alyre.”
“If you say so. Anyway, back to Ken and Bunnie’s thingy on Saturday night. Can you make it?”
Normally the last place I would want to be on a Saturday night was Ken and Bunnie’s thingy. But these were not normal times. Three men were dead under questionable circumstances, and Ken Fanshaw had known two of them. One he had sailed with; the other he had partied with. The sailing may have been innocent — although, if my memory served me, Graham Scott’s mother looked as if she had swallowed a bitter pill when she saw the photo of her son on Fanshaw’s boat in her album. The Campbell parties were decidedly not innocent. If Vernon’s reaction to Ken Fanshaw’s photo meant what I thought it meant, Fanshaw was one of the Romans in attendance at those parties. An evening in Fanshaw’s company would give me the opportunity to observe him without having to manufacture a reason. The drawback of course was Felicia Morgan. Long red fingernails were tapping me on the chest.
“I’m waiting, Monty!”
“Right. What time is this affair at the Fanshaws’?”
“The affair starts at eight-thirty. Or we could start it earlier. Why don’t you come up for a drink first?”
“We’d better make it eight-thirty. I have some things to do before then.”
“Fine. Dress is casual.” That at least was good news. “Okay then. I’d better get all this stuff out to my car.” What could I do but carry some of her bags? After that, I was away.
†
Saturday night, with a heavy heart, I pulled up outside the upscale Summer Gardens condominium tower to pick up Felicia. She got into my car, showing a lot of leg, and we drove down Spring Garden and Coburg roads to the Fanshaws’ palace on the Arm.
The house was everything I had dreamed of — when I was five years old. The exterior was an extravagance of late Victorian turrets, a mix of Gothic and Palladian windows, and a Georgian-style clock tower aping the one on Citadel Hill. If this was the castle of Mad Ludwig, he had a mad wife who ran riot through the inside of the house. The interior was a pastiche of decorating fads, with faux marble columns, frescoes, jarringly mismatched wallpapers, and bad modern art hung for some unfathomable reason in rococo frames.
This was to be an evening of games. I detest being invited to someone’s house and made to sit and play games. Of course that is usually because I want to engage in free-wheeling conversation with the other guests; at the Fanshaws’, it was probably not much of a loss. I chose Scrabble for my first game and ended up with three people I had never met. Felicia chose backgammon. I contemplated phoning my brother and having him make a fake emergency call to get me out of there. The sole reason I had agreed to come was to learn whatever I could about Kenneth Fanshaw. But the only way to do that would be to tag along after him and play the same aggravating games he was playing. I couldn’t work up the ambition. I did notice, and I cannot say I was surprised, that every game he played, he played to win. There was no casual conversation from Fanshaw that night. His only comments were “fuck” or “fuckin’ A,” depending on how he was doing. We occasionally heard him speak when he barged in
to somebody else’s conversation — nearly always a woman’s — to issue a correction or pontificate on the subject under discussion. I had seen the type before, a man — nearly always a man — who could not bear to lose, and could not bear to let anyone else’s remarks stand as the last word on a subject. Other people addressing a topic? If Ken didn’t jump in, somebody might think he knew nothing about it! For my part, I made words up or deliberately misspelled them, but none of my opponents noticed. Bunnie fluttered around, sat on laps, played a hand or a round for other people, and generally caused them to lose points at whatever game they were playing. I was tempted to get looped on Ken’s whiskey, but I had to keep a head on my shoulders in order to deal with Felicia. I had one drink of Irish, then switched to ginger ale.
“Are these real gold, Bunnie?” I heard a woman ask. She was holding up a pair of large, heavy-looking dice.
“Yeah, I got them for Ken last Christmas. They came in a set: gold, silver, and bronze.”
“Aren’t you afraid somebody will put them in their pocket when they leave?”
“Oh, I think we know our friends better than that, Trish! I trust you!”
“I saw a pair of those,” said the man sitting with Trish. “Dice Campbell had them. Poor Dicey, eh? They didn’t bring him any luck.”
“I didn’t know you played cards with Dice Campbell, hon,” Trish said. “I wouldn’t have been too happy if I’d known that. You might have lost the house!”
“It was only once, Trishie.”
“Dice Campbell was my lawyer,” another woman said. Her earrings appeared to contain as much gold as the dice. “I kind of wondered about him. He was really nice. And good-looking! But, Trish, you remember when I bought the apartment building on Inglis Street —”
“Yeah, I was wishing I could win the lottery so I could afford to outbid you for it, Leona! Such a beautiful building. And you’d never have trouble finding tenants so close to the universities. I figured it would be a gold mine.”
“Yes, and it was priced like a gold mine! I retained Dice to search the title and do all the related work. Lawyers get a percentage of the purchase price, so there was a good bit of money in it for him. Turned out he was already representing the vendor, the company that was selling the building to me. That’s kind of a conflict of interest, wouldn’t you say? If there’s a problem with the title, or the foundation — or if there’s a disagreement — whose side is he on? He sure wouldn’t have wanted the sale to fall through, no matter what. Anyway, he told me I should have independent legal advice and he gave me the name of another lawyer to go to. But the guy was a friend of his, so I didn’t know what to do. Dice kind of pressured me to go to this guy. I got the impression he was a little too interested in the large amount of money involved! Anyway, I didn’t like the feel of it, so I went to somebody else.”
I couldn’t help but ask: “Who was the lawyer he tried to send you to?”
“I don’t know. The name was familiar at the time, but I can’t remember now.”
“Yeah,” Trish’s husband chimed in. “I heard there were times when Dice was pretty desperate for money. He had a lot of expensive habits.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Nearly ten years ago. I bought the building in 1981.”
“So, Leona,” Trish said. “Tell us. Is it a gold mine?”
“I’ve done well with it. Now I’m thinking of doing major renovations.”
“I can help you with that!” Bunnie exclaimed. “I have lots of ideas that could brighten up that place.”
Leona and Trish exchanged glances, then Leona replied: “Thanks, Bunnie. I’ll let you know.”
Finally, it was time to go. I shook hands with our hosts. “Thanks, Ken, Bunnie. Great time.”
“You’re welcome, Montague. Drop by and see us any time. And you, Felicia, of course.”
“Of course, Ken. Bunnie, call me!” She thrust her face on one side of Bunnie’s and then the other, kissing the air beside her ears.
When we were seated in my car, Felicia said: “I could tell you stories about those two!”
“Oh?”
“Why don’t we have a nightcap at my place, and I’ll fill you in.”
Here it was. I wanted to find out anything I could about Fanshaw, but a stint in Felicia’s condo was the price to be extracted. Sighing inwardly, I said: “Sure.” I drove towards my fate like a hostage in a carjacking incident.
“Have a seat and relax,” she purred when we were inside. “I’ll fix us something to drink.”
I sat on a crimson crushed-velvet love seat and looked around. The living room was done up in a mix of traditional and modern furniture, all of it top of the line.
Felicia returned with a multicoloured drink of some kind and leaned way over to hand it to me. “What is this?” I asked her.
“It’s a secret potion, Monty, what do you think? Actually, it’s something I learned to make when I vacationed in Haiti last year.”
Chances were it had nothing to do with Voodoo, but it didn’t look like my kind of libation.
“Have you got a beer?”
“Boring! Oh, all right. Keith’s?”
“Perfect.”
She poured me a beer, came back, and curled up beside me on the love seat. Let the haggling begin.
“What did you think of Ken and Bunnie’s house?”
“Big-Pot-at-Bingo Baronial.”
“Isn’t it! They’re so tacky. I’ve tried to guide them, gently, but they don’t take the hint. I guess when you grow up with nothing, that’s the way it is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But they’re wonderful people. Great friends. Not everyone would agree.”
“Is that right?”
“There’s no accounting for friendship sometimes, wouldn’t you say, Monty?”
“There’s something in that, I suppose.”
“For instance.” She leaned in close, making contact on a number of fronts in the process. “I have some real dirt on your friend Ed Johnson. And if you —”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
She looked at me in genuine surprise. “Sure you do.”
“No. I don’t.” I twisted away to place my glass on the table beside the love seat, moving slightly away from her as I did so.
“I’ll bet Johnson would be all ears if I said I was going to tell him tales about you.”
“There are no tales about me . . .” No tales that I would want to reach the ears of Felicia or anyone else involved in the legal system here or abroad.
“That’s not what I heard, you outlaw!” She wagged her finger at me like a cartoon schoolmarm. I said nothing in reply, and she finally relented. “Okay, we’ll leave your misdeeds for another day. Or another night. Now, you say you don’t want to hear a word against Ed Johnson. But surely you want to hear about the Fanshaws. Everybody wants to know about them.”
“I don’t care about the Fanshaws. Say whatever you like.”
“But you do care about Ed. Isn’t that sweet? I’m sure he’d be touched.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, anyway, Ken Fanshaw is lucky to be where he is, even if you and I agree his house is hideous, because if he hadn’t been a very clever little operator, he might be serving time in prison instead of hosting parties and heading up charity wingdings.”
“Why? What did he do?”
She smiled and reached up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, again moving in overly close to do so. Were her arms shorter than normal?
“Why don’t we get comfortable and discuss this on a more level playing field, as they say?”
“Oh, I think we’re fine here.”
“Playing hard to get, are you? I like that in a man. A nice change from the way they usually behave, charging at a girl the minute the door is closed.”
“Fanshaw? You were saying?”
“He’s not hard to get, let me tell you! The question is, who would he like better, me or you?”
�
�I don’t see much of a future for me and Ken. Our decorating styles would clash frightfully, and that alone would drive us apart.”
“Ha ha, very amusing, Monty. Anyway, about Ken. He likes a little snort once in a while. And I don’t mean that the way our fathers did. We’re not talking a shot glass full of Scotch.”
“Right.”
“I have it on good authority that Ken financed a big shipment of cocaine. The stuff started to make its way around the streets, and the police caught Ken’s co-conspirator for trafficking. Ken paid him handsomely to take the rap and keep his mouth shut. Ken put the guy’s money in an account for him, gave him the papers; it was there waiting when the guy got out of jail.”
“Who was the co-conspirator?”
“I have no idea.”
“When was this?”
“A few years ago.”
She went to the kitchen and came back with another beer. The narrative resumed. “Now Bunnie, believe it or not, doesn’t know any of this. Bunnie’s in line to receive a not inconsiderable sum from her father whenever he kicks the bucket. The father’s nothing but a sawmill operator. But guess where?”
“Where?”
“He is the owner of lands contiguous to and abutting on the Bromley Point development.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I’m sure Ken is fond of Bunnie but, well, he sees dollar signs too, and he knows his future is with his wife, come hell or high water. So, as I say, Bunnie doesn’t know about some of Ken’s little peccadilloes, and I would be the last one to let anything slip.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You like music, don’t you, Monty?”
I wonder if anyone, anywhere, has ever said: “No, I don’t like music.”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. She uncoiled herself from the love seat and went to the stereo, where she bent way over and searched for something to evoke the mood she wanted. If it was “Bolero,” I was out of there. But it was something Middle Eastern: seductive but not cheesy.
“You like?”
“It’s good.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When she appeared again she was in a short, translucent nightie in what struck me as a most unappealing shade of peach. But colour was hardly the point. She leaned over me yet again and tried to draw me up by the hand. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming with me? I promise you delights you’ve never even imagined!”
